Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [82]
Not only did she raise her hand and speak at each of the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings she attended twice a week, but she had become an active participant in her group-therapy sessions.
“It’s about protecting myself, and it’s about setting boundaries, and it’s about . . .” she had trailed off, unsure, trying to think of the correct word. “And it’s about being . . . angry?” Pausing long enough to see the therapist smile and nod, she continued. “My stalker violated my self-esteem, and then she violated my home. My security was breached—and I’m very . . . I’m . . . well . . . I’m just not happy about it.”
“You’re not happy about it? one of the members of the group challenged, a man named Edward who claimed to have three testicles.
Clenching her fists and owning her anger, Peggy Jean cried, “I’m Goddamn angry!”
As a good Christian woman, Peggy Jean immediately felt she should have said, darn angry, or very angry, or really, really angry. But she had simply spoken what was in her heart. Yet God created her heart, hadn’t he? And her heart had said Goddamn.
“But you’re a celebrity. You have to get used to those things,” another patient argued.
“Tell that to Prince William and Prince Harry,” she snapped. “You tell that to Debby Boone.” Peggy Jean calmed herself by concentrating on her breathing; in for three counts, out for six.
Somebody else asked, “So what about those ads for milk? You know, where all the stars have milk mustaches? What about them people; they get stalkers and they don’t have to go to the hospital.”
“The reason I had to be hospitalized was because I used alcohol and pills to stuff my emotions, instead of going through the feelings.” Then she added, “I was asked to do one of those milk ads, as a matter of fact, and I still may.” She placed her hands on her lap, noticing the faint hairs on her arms.
And I am okay with that.
Peggy Jean would not lock herself in the garage and turn on the ignition like the namesake of the clinic had done. Oh no. It can’t be wrong when it feels so right. ’Cause you, you light up my life.
“W
elcome to Sellevision. I’m your host, Bebe Friedman, and this is Dazzling Diamonelle.” The first item Bebe presented was a pair of teardrop two-karat total weight Diamonelle earrings in fourteen-karat white gold. A quarter of the way through her presentation, they sold out. The next item, a seven-and-a-half-inch Diamonelle tennis bracelet, seven-karat total simulated gemstone weight, set in fourteen-karat yellow gold also sold out quickly.
By now, Bebe’s fans knew all about Eliot, much to his horror. Bebe received so much E-mail that she had two assistants to help her answer them. And most of the E-mails wished her good luck with Eliot, telling her how wonderful he was. On air, it seemed she barely talked about the item she was presenting and instead talked about her relationship—yet all of her shows continued to be hugely successful.
On the Teleprompter in front of her, Bebe saw there was a caller with the name Michael. Bebe was presenting a two-karat round Diamonelle solitaire in fourteen-karat yellow gold. “Let’s go to the phones and say hello to Michael from Pennsylvania—hi, Michael, how are you this evening?”
“I’m very well, thank you, Bebe,” Michael said.
Bebe recognized Eliot’s voice. He had used his first name, the name he almost never used. I’m going to kill you, she thought. “So, Michael, what made you decide to pick up this ring?” she said, smiling into the camera, pretending not to know him.
“Well, Bebe, the reason I chose this ring is because it’s such a classic engagement ring, and the woman I’m going to present it to is anything but classic, so I thought it would be a nice juxtaposition. Oh, and I also liked the fact that it’s a pretty big stone. I was hoping this would up the odds of her saying ‘yes’ when I ask her to marry me.”
For a few seconds, the estimated twenty-four million viewers tuned into Sellevision at that exact moment saw only Bebe Friedman staring blankly out from their television screens, saying absolutely nothing. Then they heard